The Whole Story
by Miss DiNozzo
Summary: She could tell them that they don't know the whole story. She could tell them that they don't have all the facts. She could tell them that they're misreading the situation. But that would be a lie. The truth is, they know the story very well—maybe even better than she does. And she's spent her entire life trying to deny it. Post 2x13


She could tell them that they don't know the whole story. She could tell them that they don't have all the facts. She could tell them that they're misreading the situation. But that would be a lie. The truth is, they know the story very well—maybe even better than she does. And she's spent her entire life trying to deny it.

I used to think that tears were a silly thing. They were a show of weakness, and weakness was an entity to fear. One's strength was one's pride, and without such, one could not survive. Tears demonstrated a lack of experience, an ill preparedness for the world. They were the most striking show of cowardice, instability, and immaturity. Many people still possess this belief, but I am no longer one of them. I dropped that a long time ago, and now I'm not sure why I ever believed in it. The same dreaded tears that once brought me guilt and regret are now the only things that bring me comfort. That's why I feel no shame or embarrassment as I sit here now, in a ball on the floor. That's why I am not afraid to let the tears flow freely.

I shudder at what I have done. I have turned my back on the one that once cared for me; I have abandoned every single smiling face he ever gave me; I have given up the life I was once all too eager to live. And all for what? This, just this. This big house, very beautiful and very cold. This existence that is nothing but loneliness and anger. This broken heart that will never be mended. All I have now is the emptiness that surrounds my entire world, my small, insignificant world. I could have been, _should_ have been more. Every movement I make feels forced, now. Nothing is free and simple anymore. Happiness is a word that no longer dwells in my vocabulary. The fond memories I have of the past are fading steadily with each passing hour, and I hate myself for that fact every day.

I sob silently into my arms, praying for something, anything. Anything that will stop the daily tedium that my life has become. But nothing happens, of course, because nothing ever happens. It's always the same, so I don't know why I'm always just as disappointed as I was the last time that my prayers were left unanswered, but I am. I hug myself tighter, trying to calm the tremors that are sweeping through me. I'd like to say that what happened was the fault of others, that this whole situation was the result of a rough chain of events or a string of bad luck. I know that isn't exactly plausible, but in my emotional wreck, I've welcomed every opportunity to forget that I did this to myself. I would be happy to forget that, if it were possible. But it's not possible.

The dark shadows on my walls dance as the trees blow in the wind. Darkness always made me feel alone when I was younger, but it almost feels warm now as it blankets me and my life. When I expunged every other thing from my universe, I let the darkness stay. When the walls were caving in and the sky was crashing down, as they usually were, the darkness was there for me. It never asked me questions or begged for answers. It was always just there, breathing, shining, and in ways most humans can't understand, listening. It is the one thing that never turned me away.

This is where they left me, or where I really left myself. In this very room, I denied the truth, defended the lies, and lost the family that I would never have again. And this is sort of where I've stayed. There's nowhere else for me to go. It's hard to pick yourself up in a situation like this, when there isn't any motivation to keep moving forward. After a while you become numb, though, and while standing up is just as hard, the pain eases. At some point, you have to stop feeling, and my body has bled all it can bleed.

But do you ever truly stop feeling guilty, regretting every decision that led you down this path? My theory is that grief is an illusion, and that the unhappiness and dissatisfaction we often feel is simply a figment of our subconscious. The anguish is a coping mechanism invented by human nature. We rid ourselves of the conflicting emotions built up in our system through tears and misery. To our minds, this reaction reveals the devastation we feel, shows the weight we carry on our shoulders, but to our bodies, this twisted thing is nothing more than the natural release of negative energies. To end the dejection is like flipping a switch. Being somber is a choice, and being joyous is a choice. A person could hold onto the balloon of melancholy that hangs over their head, or they could release the strings and let go. I just haven't chosen yet.

I don't see what is keeping me from moving past the tragedy, but it has an incredible influence. I drag myself through my world because of it. My life is like that of a soul with no body— always searching for something that may or may not exist. There is no visible purpose, anymore. What I did is something that can't be changed or fixed. My actions have long standing consequences, and I knew that going in, but here I am, being punished for them every day of my meaningless existence. I often wonder if it was worth it, and I know the answer, but resigning myself to that makes me feel so much worse. So I just don't decide.

In all actuality, my crimes are heinous, especially when considering their effects. I had everything I needed before, but I was too blind to notice. My ambitions and insecurities clouded the fact that my reality was everything I'd ever wanted out of my life. But nothing is ever enough for me, is it? I always want more, even when my cup is overflowing. And because of that, I lost every single thing in this cruel place that ever mattered to me. My friends, my family, my dignity, my faith— all of them are casualties in this war of revenge.

Being surrounded by people who cared about me made me feel loved, and now that that is gone, I realize how much I never appreciated it. Because of my stupidity, I am alone, and I notice this more than ever before. The worst feeling in the world is to know that there is nothing to wake up to in the mornings and nothing to wait for you to come to bed. It's like being a broken toy, abandoned by the child who no longer wants to play, put away and forgotten about. Out of sight, out of mind, right? If only that worked both ways.

I'm sure none of the others think of me anymore. How long has it been now? Eight months? Eight months of not really living, just existing, wandering through fog. By now they've all likely moved on and don't give a damn about my problems anymore. If they did, by some miracle, care a little, no one has stepped up to show it. I mean, they must have always felt about me what I know of myself: I'm the screw up. If I hadn't played Eve and eaten the apple, mankind wouldn't have fallen and this would still be a happy place, a place where I don't feel alone. Maybe one day it could be that comforting place again. But wishful thinking isn't getting me anywhere, as time has clearly displayed, so why bother?

But they were the ones who gave up on me, even though I tried to fix it. They turned away, and never even gave me a chance to explain myself. I fought a losing battle, so hard that I thought for just a moment that maybe this could be mended. They were stronger, though, and knocked me to the ground as if I was a blade of grass and they were the wind. It was strangely gentle, but the cruelty remains. I can feel the thickness in my throat trying to choke me out. The intensity of these emotions is laboring my breathing and the tears slow.

I am hyperventilating, but I don't care. My pathetic self pity is gone now, replaced by anger and disgust. Why should I cry for his loss? He _burned _her, for God's sake! I rise from the cold floor with a newfound sense of brutality. Screaming, I kick my foot into the leg of my kitchen table, watching as it buckles and slams to the ground. Just like my life did.

"He! Ruined! Everything!" With each new word, I jam my leg into the wood, shouting and screeching all the while. _He _did this. _He _made me feel this way. _He_ made a mess of everything. When the table has had enough, I leap to the cupboards, grabbing at my glasses and plates. Effortlessly shattering the objects, I watch their pieces fall to the floor. I throw them at the place where I destroyed the table, I slam them on the counter, I project them at the wall. The cupboard empties quickly, but my anger has not dissipated in the least. I'd like to continue wrecking my possessions, but there is nothing left for me to decimate.

I crumple to the floor in a heap, ignoring the stinging in my bleeding hands and feet, because it's true. I have killed everything I ever touched—my family, my home, my life, and him. _I killed him_. And I have the nerve to sit here and dismantle my belongings. I steal a glance at the remnants of my kitchen, and guilt consumes me. The shards of glass and plastic are only my failures personified. They were always waiting for me when I needed them, ceaselessly in that cupboard or across from my stove. And I wrecked them. _What's wrong with me?_

My stomach sinks as the question floats through my mind. There _must _be something wrong with me. It has to be grotesque or something, because it makes the people who once considered me their family cringe away. To total strangers, it must be worse. They automatically judge me because they don't know me, and if what I have is bad enough to turn my closest relationships sour, making new ones will be nearly impossible. The truth of the matter is that I can't make them love me if they just don't.

I crawl carefully around the shards of glass into my living room. The sofa is inviting, a safe place for me to be swallowed by my own insecurities. I wander slowly onto the furniture and nestle myself into the back of it. For a while, I just sit there in complete numbness, trying as hard as I can not to feel anymore. Feeling is what got me into this mess, anyway.

Before all of this happened, there were days when I pondered my self-worth. I blamed myself for anything and everything that went wrong, and it really killed what little confidence I had to begin with. There were a lot of times when I believed I was worthless. Nothing has really changed on that front, I guess. I still feel like an outsider. But it was okay before, because I had _him_.

Who do I have now?


End file.
